She used to laugh at the girls who friendzoned nice guys and went after the s. Called them stupid. Masochistic. Blind. Because who in their right mind would prefer someone who didn't give a about them over someone who did? She could never understand why.

She still doesn't. Well. She does understand how they felt— just not why. She still doesn't know why. And it's funny, because she's become one of them.

She doesn't have any "friendzoned" nice guys. She isn't nearly attractive enough to have someone like her. She does have nice (and attractive) male friends though, but somehow the only one she likes is the douchebag.

He isn't that much of a douche. Not really. Not to his friends. He's really good to his friends. And she thought she was his friend too, but turns out she isn't. Or maybe she is. She doesn't know. She doesn't know anything anymore. One minute he would be nice to her, friendly, treat her like she's one of his bros, the next minute— off, One Ket, nobody likes you; can't you see we're talking?; why are you looking at us? we don't know you— and she would laugh, shake her head, pretend to brush it all off, while her other friends would laugh too, because he was funny.

She didn't mind that much, at first. That was how he was, she figured, and as long as he was sometimes still nice to her, she let it be. But then it got worse. The mean side of him came out more. More than once, she could feel tears threatening to well up in her eyes— that telltale rush of heat in her eyes and the lump in — but she always willed it away, because tears were for the weak, and she was anything but. And today— there were two other people in the dorm lounge, apart from him and her— and he asked them both if they would like to go to the store three blocks away to buy some food. But he didn't ask her. She waited, and waited, but he never asked her, and when she came back from the bathroom, they were gone. Just like that.

She forced herself not to cry, not even when she was alone in her room. If it was any other person she would be pissed, furious. But now... all she feels is misery. Loneliness. Unwanted. Unloved. And there is no one to turn to. No one knows how she feels— not just about him, but generally— and she can't afford anyone to know. She has to keep up her happy-go-lucky, problem-free facade. She can't afford to show weakness. There is no one she can trust, not here. The only people who she can trust are halfway across the globe, and they are of little use. She needs a comforting presence, a physical one, and right now there is none.

She doesn't understand why she still likes him. It's stupid, unreasonable. Nothing good can come out of this. So why does she still like him? It's killing her, slowly, this loneliness, this rejection. She doesn't even care if he returns her feelings anymore, she just wants to be friends. Why doesn't he like her enough to be friends? What is wrong with her?

Ironic, isn't it, how she has become precisely the kind of person she used to look down upon and laugh at? Pathetic. It's getting harder and harder to convince herself that she's still wanted, that she would be missed if she were to disappear. She hasn't felt suicidal in years, but that dormant, familiar evil inside of her is stirring again, and it's getting harder to resist its temptations. She has to force herself to remember that she is wanted, that she will be missed if she were to die, that she does have a purpose in life. Her mood, as well as her thoughts, are fluctuating dangerously. She knows that, by the time she goes down to have dinner, this darkness will have dissipated. But she knows just as well that it will return, and when it does there's a chance that it will be stronger. It's funny how she could convince other people not to kill themselves when right now she can barely convince herself. Maybe one day she won't be able to anymore.